


Striking-A BATIM AU Oneshot Collection

by Haberdashery



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Autistic Sammy Lawrence, Body Horror, Dubious synesthesia, Everyone Is Gay, F/F, F/M, Jack Fain needs like twenty hugs, Just assume they’re all gay, M/M, Magic, Memory Loss, Not Canon Compliant, Oneshot collection, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Sammy can Hear Auras, Satanism?? Kinda, Susie Campbell is a Badass, Wally Franks is a Good Friend, Wally Franks is his Own Monster, headcanon heavy, i wrote this at eleven at night sorry for any grammar inconsistencies, sentient ink, theyre all traumatized, unless otherwise stated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:33:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27704177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haberdashery/pseuds/Haberdashery
Summary: A bunch of Oneshots pertaining to an AU I had an idea for. These will be fragmented, in no chronological order.You may piece the story together as you wish.Requests are open!
Relationships: Henry Stein/Linda Stein, Jack Fain/Coffee, Joey Drew & Sammy Lawrence, Sammy Lawrence/Norman Polk, Susie Campbell/Sammy Lawrence (one sided), will add more - Relationship
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	1. A Story

**Author's Note:**

> I haven’t read DCTL, so this is very canon divergent. Just as a warning.
> 
> This fandom dragged me down by the ankles, and this idea took hold of me and wouldn’t let go, so here’s to me opening up this account again after two years lol
> 
> TW for canon-typical body horror

It was known, but not spoken of, that some places had magic.

It wasn’t that they gave magic out to people, or taught it, or any ideas like that that came up in popular media every so often. There were no schools of magic, no place where you could learn the craft. Like most things concerning nature, it was innate, an instinct, ingrained in the DNA of the world.

You are curious. I can tell.

It is in your nature.

Most humans already had abilities that were somewhat out of the ordinary. From being able to spice any dish perfectly to never plucking a sour note on a violin, everyone had some small, arbitrary attribute that had little to no impact on their life.

In short terms, some places amplified this ability.

People noticed. Civilizations were built around these places—temples and capitals and placed of commerce were the most common. Great leaders, pharaohs, emperors, and businessmen stayed in these places. And thus, their innate power deepened.

I can see you piecing the idea in your mind. You already suspect, don’t you?

Joey Drew Studios was one of these places.

This shouldn’t surprise you, reader. You know already of the atrocities that happened in that studio. How would these be possible without an outside force?

Demons, Devils, and Angels. Prophets, and Searchers, and Ones Lost.

How else would these creatures exist without magic?

You are still skeptical. You believe in a world divided into three—the Earth, the Above, and the Below.

Is it so shocking to learn that the world is much simpler? That there is just magic, and Without?

You still do not believe.

Let me tell you a story.

The story of a young woman, by the name of Susie Campbell.

She was born in Brooklyn, on the eighteenth of October, 1914. Her father had left before she was born, and Susie was raised by her mother and her aunt, who both worked as seamstresses in a shop across the street from their apartment.

They sent her to school, of course, and her own power, of being someone else, grew slightly there. In her school, she learned how to evade notice by the teachers, the basics on making a persona, how to mask her true nature under layers upon layers of deceit and pretty lies.

But that was not her true education.

Her mother, and aunt, had been hurt many times by ones close to them. They taught her how to never get burnt by other’s flames.

They taught her how to stand up for herself when the boy across the street threatened to kill her. They taught her out to defend herself against men who would want to take advantage of her. They taught her acceptance, to never get in the middle of a married relationship, and how to get jobs that were meant for only men.

She learned how to take care of herself.

And when her mother and aunt both died in an accident in her sixteenth year, she was ready.

She always had a talent for imitating, for making the characters she voice acted come together fully in recordings. It was, first, a way to become privy to facts she would not otherwise know. It morphed into a way to get people to do what she wanted—pretend to somebody else, and the rest would follow.

It was also an ability that had served her well in her career: Women in her time were not treated fairly, by a long shot. It was only through her inherent talent (and years of practice) that any studio at all even thought about hiring her.

And then she applied for a job at Joey Drew Studios, in the year 1931.

JDS had a reputation for taking in all the “vagrants” off the street, giving them jobs and a place to stay. There were plenty of women who worked there, and people of color, and immigrants, and everyone in between. Although the founder of the studio was somewhat temperamental (in all aspects of the word), he always seemed to attract the best of the best, and his studio was booming because of it.

This, perhaps, had something to do with the site of the building. The place where it stood.

Would it surprise you, dear reader, to learn that structures have personalities? No, not what like you’re thinking. Not just a rusty pipe here or a squeaky floorboard there. Actual consciousnesses, complete with semi coherent thoughts, feelings, and ideas.

Joey Drew Studios attracted the best of the best because it called out to them.

Joey himself was an ambitious man, filled to the brim with dreams he would bring to reality. He was always charismatic, charming people into doing their part in his plans. This, of course, was bolstered by the Studio itself. Joey fed on its powers, and the Studio, in turn, fed on his dreams.

And oh, what fantastical dreams they were.

The Studio reached out, to the souls those worthy enough to continue Joey’s dream. Those who answered the call would find themselves entwined in the Studio’s grasp, unable to leave even if they tried.

And thus, we return to Susie Campbell.

She got the job, first interview. Something approved, deep in Joey’s mind, and the blurred man next to him smiled and made small talk.

It took a short while for the amplification to become noticeable—for Susie to imprint and sink deeply into her role as Alice. She could have done others, become other people if she tried, but the pull to Alice from the Studio was too great.

There were days, later on, where other people in the Studio did not know if it was Susie talking to them, or Alice Angel herself.

But we’ll come back to that.

Let me paint you a scene.

The year is 1931. It’s spring, and Susie Campbell has just been cast as a voice actor in the up-and-coming Joey Drew Studios. She is to play a new character, the love interest of Bendy, by the name of Alice Angel.

She is beyond ecstatic.

She is about to meet the music director, a man she knows by reputation alone. His name is Sammy Lawrence, and he is the most beautiful man she’s ever met.

He isn’t meeting her eyes, and he has a stack of sheet music on his desk. He’s fiddling with something, but Susie can’t quite make out what exactly it is.

Joey is with her. Sammy hasn’t noticed either of them yet.

Susie clears her throat. The noise sounds somewhat like Joey’s, the same almost cough at the end, almost like she was choking on air.

Sammy whips his head up. He notices Susie, who smiles and waves.

“Sammy, this is Susie, our—”

“New voice actress, I assume?” Sammy stands. He still won’t look Susie in the eyes, instead glaring at Mr. Drew. Susie tracks his line of sight. He’s glaring at the boss’s chin, not his eyes. “So glad you could get the right one without consulting me.”

This is Susie’s first sign of strain in the Studio. Her once broad smile thins into a line.

Joey laughs, eyeing Susie. “What are you talking about, Sammy boy? I told you about the new character last week!” He gives the voice actress a look that loosely translates to _This guy, amiright?_

Sammy’s face is rigid with some sort of emotion. “You know what I meant, Drew. I don’t even know this woman’s vocal range! You give me a _week_ to create an entire motif for the new character, but I don’t even know if this woman can sing on pitch or not!” His anger turns to Susie, who’s openly frowning. She doesn’t do that often.”

“Have you _ever_ even sung a note in your life, ma’am?” He asks.

Susie feels a burning feeling in her chest and in her face. How _dare_ this man question her singing ability! Why, she oughta—

What?

Where did that come from?

Those weren’t her thoughts. They were gold-tinged with black, clouds that settled in the back of her mind. That wasn’t….no, that wasn’t her.

Then who?

Something takes over her mind, for just a second. She squares her shoulders at this man who _dares_ question her. She straightens her back, and sings.

It isn’t Susie’s voice.

It’s just a few bars, an upbeat song she must have heard on the radio a while back. But that isn’t her voice, and for a few seconds, Susie is trapped in her body as another takes control.

She settles back into herself after the song is over, and sees Sammy hastily scribbling on a piece of paper. He looks up distractedly. “So you’re an alto. Good to know.”

He smiles, and Susie forgets immediately of the voice that isn’t hers. Like something wipes it from her mind.

“That’s me, all right!” Susie says cheerfully. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Lawrence!” She takes his hand and shakes it hard.

“Call me Sammy.” There’s ice in his voice, but Susie can tell it isn’t meant for her.

Joey winks at Susie and Sammy, a jovial smile playing on his lips. “I’ll leave you to it, then. I expect the new recordings done by Wednesday; you hear?”

“Okay, Joey. I’ll have them done by then.” Susie notices the venom in Sammy’s words—he’s bristling on the spot, but Joey doesn’t seem to notice or care.

“I knew I could count on you, Sammy boy!” Joey grinned, shoulder bumping the music director before exiting the department, whistling.

Sammy winces, and then turns to Susie with a weary grimace. “Let’s get to work now, shall we?” he asks, directing the voice actress to the recording booth as he shoves a couple pages of sheet music into her hands.

The Studio lets out a metaphorical breath of relief. The plan will go accordingly.

Do you see, now?

Do you see the guiding force?

The Studio loved Joey Drew. It followed his emotions, gave into his every whim.

And when he fell from grace, the Studio followed suit.

And when, finally, he left this life, many, many years later, the Studio collapsed under the despair.

But there is a lot of time between then and now.

We are at the very beginning. And we have all the time and the world.

Let me tell you a story.


	2. Colors Hazing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Prophet awakens.

The colors were wrong.

He didn’t know how, or why, or even who he was, but colors were wrong, and the colors were never wrong.

They were usually so vibrant. They flowed over everything, all sounds had different colors—some duller than others, but they were always _there,_ so entwined in the fabric of the world he saw that he couldn’t imagine life without them.

They weren’t gone, not completely.

Maybe it would be better if they were. If they were just…not there, the absence of something and not this disfigured mess. Not this…this madness drumming around in the air and in his mind.

There was a resounding pumping sound in the place he was in (wherever that was), like the thrum of machinery, low and deep. It was supposed to be a deep red, like the barn on his family’s land, with a texture like a child had scribbled in Crayola.

Wait.

Where did that analogy come from?

He didn’t take the time to question it.

Instead, it was sickly, a dark yellow that shouldn’t have been possible. Pulsing black veins, ebbing and squeezing like molasses through a cheese grater, oozed around him. A part of him wanted to reach out and touch the swelling mass, to see if it was real. This urge was only abated by the fear that he would lift his arm and touch something solid, that he would run his hands through the viscous slime. He imagined the cold shock of it, numbing his fingers, and coating them in a thin, glassy film. He shook the image from his mind.

He kept his arms at his side.

It took him a minute to realize that he was curled up in a corner—he felt somewhat disconnected from his body, like he was looking through someone else’s eyes. It was so dark he couldn’t see his own self, relying on sense of touch to locate his limbs, and where they were positioned.

There was something slightly off about the room. About the air he was breathing.

His thoughts were muffled, and it was like he was moving through a thick fog. His arms were dead weights, his head strangely cushioned by something he couldn’t see.

Were his eyes even open?

He couldn’t tell.

His mind, scattered, fixated on the sickening colors in his vision. It gave him something to focus on, gave him a resounding feeling, even if that feeling was revulsion, mixed with enough fear to make his stomach churn.

He lifted his hand. Raised it (or lowered, he couldn’t tell), to his head.

Oh _god._ _  
_  
What he touched was not hair, or skin, but something _other._ A poor imitation of human skin, like bread dough or slime.

He was reminded of the colors ebbing around him, but he couldn’t take his hand away from his head. It was cold, whatever it was that was on his head. It was cold, and malleable, and he could move it easily with his fingertips. It gave little pushback.

He wanted to throw up, but he couldn’t find his mouth—did he even have one? Had he ever had one? His mind, blurred and mismatched and scattered, only picked up on the feeling of panic, and even that was diluted by the thing in the air.

Was it air?

  
What was air?

In a moment, he was flailing—kicking and moving and swatting at the color all around him—he needed to get out, get out, _get out—_

And he was out.

He was coughing, freezing, cold, cold, colder than he had ever been before. His limbs were dripping with whatever the substance was that he was now escaping, still clinging to his body.

  
A voice.

Light, airy. Loud.

  
Black like ink and death.

Scrambling, splashing, shrieking away from the voice.

“Well, I suppose it didn’t come out _too_ bad,” the voice said. “Much better than the first batch, at least.” A slight chuckle, the ink of it circling around in his mind.

It was dark.

Were his eyes closed?

The voice worked its way into his head—smooth and lilting and evil.

“What do you think, Sammy? Not too shabby, if I do say so myself. You got lucky, my good sir.” A pat on his arm.

The being (Sammy?) pulled away, a groan or a screech in his throat.

“Upupup, my future prophet! Don’t run away! You haven’t even met your lord yet!”

A shot of pure panic jolted him into stopping.

Lord?

  
The word was darker than the inky black of the voice—impossible, dark as the absence of light—and less human. The word didn’t belong to him, or the voice speaking it. Who, then?

 _Open your eyes, Prophet,_ something whispered in his mind. Tendrils, sepia toned like warped wood, wrapped their way into his thoughts. _Open your mind to your God._

A whimper. His?

Where was he, again?

He asked this. Aloud or mentally, he couldn’t tell. Where was he? Why was he here?

Images. Flashing, dancing in his mind.

A wheelchair. A strange looking machine—pulsating and whining and groaning and gone in an instant. A man.

No, that was not a man.

It was taller—limbs longer and head larger, but strangely familiar.

Alien.

Its grin, wide and yellow, crowded out the rest of its face. Horns. Thick and running into its eyes—he knew beyond a doubt it was made of ink, it _was_ ink, the substance incarnate.

One thought came to him. One thought that pulled his mind into sanity, solidified his form.

Rapture.

 _You see?_ The tendrils whispered in his mind. _He will save you. He will set you free._

But free from what? He asked. What did he need saving from?

 _The colors,_ it whispered, thousands of voices merging together, like strands of hair. _Open your eyes and see the colors._

Something pounded very loud in his ears.

 _Open them,_ the tendrils urged. _You must._

Did he whimper? Wasn’t he too old for that?

Splotches of yellow and black bruised his vision.

 _Open them!_ The tendrils tangled and squeezed on his thoughts.

No, please, he didn’t want to—

_OPEN THEM!_

He opened his eyes and saw the world.

.

There was a man in front of him.

He was tall, well groomed, a light smile dancing on his lips.

His eyes were black.

“Why hello, Mr. Lawrence,” the man said. The voice matched the one from earlier—solidified darkness, like his eyes.

The being called Mr. Lawrence shrieked. The sound was sharp. The wrong shade of yellow.

A sharp pain, on the side of his head.

  
“That isn’t the proper response to your Lord, now is it, Sammy boy?” A grin, teeth straight and white. His hair was jet black and dripping.

A hit of revulsion shocked him, mixed with a feeling of being laid bare—like he had been peeled back one too many layers. His body quieted despite himself.

 _Look at yourself,_ the tendrils commanded. _Look down at this form you call a body._

He asked why. What should have been deep magenta but was instead a cold black filled his thoughts.

  
 _Do it,_ the tendrils repeated. _Look._

A whimper. Something wet rolled down his face—or was that there before? His whole body was still dripping in a way he wasn’t sure he wanted to understand.

The terrible smile in front of him showed his teeth. “What doya say, Sammy boy?”

His bleary mind reeled. How did the man know about the tendrils?

There was a wall in his mind. Something he was missing.

 _You’ll see if you look down,_ the tendrils teased. _All will become clear._

Biting down bile, he trained his eyes down.

Oh _Lord._ Oh lord oh lord oh lord—

His body—his body was wrong. It was dripping not with water, or any other liquid, but with _ink,_ oozing down his body and pooling at his kneeling feet. His arms were too long, reaching far past his knees. The ink was black, but not like skin. It was black like ink, like the dark recesses of his mind, like the voice and the eyes of the man in front of him.

Black like the Demon he had seen in his visions.

Breath hitching—was he even breathing in the first place?—he let out a wail, and the tendrils came to his attention again.

 _Don’t you see?_ They called to him. _The Ink Demon understands your pain. The Ink Demon will set you_ free! The tendrils twisted tighter, until he couldn’t breath, he couldn’t think, he couldn’t—

Dizzy. He was dizzy.

The Ink Demon came to him in his mind like a wash of clean water.

 _Yes,_ the tendrils whispered. _Go to your savior._ They moved against him, like they were on opposite sides of a wall.

But— the being pushed past, tried to hold onto his sanity, but his mind was slipping, his feet were off balance under him, he couldn’t hold on—

_GO!_

And then he was kneeling, hands clasped, singing hymns forgotten years ago. He was praying, fervently, his thoughts fixated on one thing and one thing only.

“He will set us free,” he called, to no one in particular. “He will save us all!”

He raised his hands to the sky, rocking back and forth and screaming out songs of rapture.

He prayed, and he screamed, and he rocked, and he sang, and the colors shot in the air around him as yellows and oranges and terrible, beautiful blacks.

The man watching him stared, quietly, his eyes dark and stained with ink.

He threw a mask at the beings’ feet.

He stopped his praying, the yellow staccatos hanging in the air as if frozen.

“Take it, Prophet. Honor your saviour.” The man winked. He then turned his heel (the sound squelched) and left the room through a door he hadn’t seen before.

The room was silent, save for the (was it really so bad?) churning of the machine.

The mask was a Bendy cutout head, a strap on one end.

He stared at it for a long while.

Finally, _(finally),_ he reached his fingers out to the mask. The ink of his own body dripped onto the cutout. He could feel it push back against his hand.

He raised the mask to his face. Attached it at the back.

 _Yes,_ the tendrils commended. _This is your true form, Prophet._

Steady, now.

Not too fast.

The Prophet, leaning on the wall, raised himself up to standing position. Shaking. Moaning. There.

“He will set us free,” he choked out, the voice smooth and natural and barely his.

“He will save us all!” He raised his voice and his hand. Took a deep breath he didn’t need.

The Prophet took a step, then another, black clouds and yellow tendrils marking his path.

To follow his savior.

To lead the sheep.

To slaughter.


End file.
